Chapter 1
Phoenix ?
I may be a single man, and I may be in possession of a good fortune. No matter what universal acknowledgment says, however, I have never been in want of a wife.
I spent most of my life happily focusing on topics other than marriage. I figured it would happen when it happened, if at all. There are plenty of other things to occupy my time.
Leave it to Mavis to throw a wrench in my plans—or my lack of plans.
After receiving the unwelcome news that my grandmother expects me to marry if I want to inherit the family company, I spend the first two weeks of June trying to figure out how to find a wife. And as it turns out, there are a lot of people who have a lot of opinions about who I should marry and when.
My mother would love for me to choose someone beautiful from a wealthy background, someone who can be her informant on the inner life of her son—someone who’ll be happy to provide for my mother financially. A trophy wife, devoted to me but equally devoted to my mother; that’s what she wants for me. The number of women she’s tried to put on my radar exceeds the number of women I have the mental space to keep track of.
My uncle Clarence and his son Lawrence, on the other hand, would prefer for me not to get married at all. I’ve seen them a handful of times since Mavis’s marriage decree, and they both look a little meaner than usual now that a new stipulation is in the works. Lawrence has an on-again, off-again woman—I don’t think I can accurately call her a girlfriend, because that implies a degree of monogamy I know Lawrence to be incapable of—that he’ll probably end up marrying so he can try to inherit instead of me. Neither he nor Clarence are above scare tactics and dirty hands to get what they want, so I have to keep an eye out for them.
Honestly, I’m not sure I’m much different. As callous as it may sound, right now I care more about inheriting Butterfield Paper and Sanitary than I do about finding a wife I love. Because I’ll have time for romance later—but this is likely the only chance I’ll get to take over the company. Mavis has been in and out of the hospital for months; I just visited her there, as a matter of fact. She was sleeping, thank goodness, but at least I can say I’ve done my duty as her grandson.
Once again, it may sound callous, but any moment could be her last.
So I need to get married quickly. Now. Yesterday.
Love can wait.
Unfortunately, this tagline is not inspiring to the women in my life—what few of them there are. Fewer still are the ones I’m not related to, and I can’t imagine marrying any of them. I have a date lined up to go boating with a woman, but I think I’m going to cancel, because I don’t really have feelings for her; and if I can’t manage a date, how am I supposed to propose? I also refuse to get entangled with any of the women my mother tries to foist upon me, which leaves me with limited options.
I need someone I can be straight with, someone who will understand. Someone who will expect nothing from me and who won’t think less of me for treating matrimony like a business transaction.
My assistant has ideas about this, and he keeps trying to bring them up.
He clears his throat, his glasses glinting as he looks at me in the rearview mirror. “If I may…you might consider Miss Blake?—”
“No,” I say, cutting him off before he can finish saying her name. Then I turn my head to stare pointedly out the window, watching the city zoom by as we head to the harbor where the ferry is docked. It’s always strange to ride in cars when I visit the mainland, now that I’ve moved to Sunset Harbor—a little island off the coast where no cars are permitted.
“I really think she?—”
“ No. ”
“Who do you suggest, then? Who else is there?” he says. I can hear the exasperation he’s trying to conceal.
Wyatt is in his fifties, and his hair is graying more slowly now that we’ve left the high-powered corporate environment and switched over to an office on the island. Sometimes, though, I get the distinct impression that he blames me for any obvious display of aging.
“I don’t know,” I say, squeezing my lids shut and trying to banish that woman from my mind. “Just—not her.”
“She wouldn’t think less of you,” Wyatt says.
“Only because her opinion of me can sink no lower,” I retort, and he nods.
“Precisely.”
Speaking of which…
“I wonder if she’s gotten my gift yet,” I say, pulling out my phone to check for any missed calls or messages.
“Your gift?” Wyatt says. He sounds skeptical—very wise .
“Mmm.” I drop my phone on the leather seat next to me. I don’t have anything from her, which means she hasn’t found it yet. I’ll hear from her when she does—loudly, possibly violently. She’ll be furious.
A little smile twitches over my lips.
My smile grows when my phone begins buzzing. I look at the name on the screen, expecting it to be her, but it’s not; it’s my uncle Clarence. My expression vanishes abruptly, and I roll my eyes. Then I put the phone back down on the seat.
Thirty seconds later, it buzzes again.
I sigh and then answer the call. “It’s well past end of day, Clarence,” I say. “Any questions regarding the company will need to wait until morning.”
“You little?—”
I hold the phone away from my ear while Clarence curses; that prominent vein in his forehead is probably popping purple in his ruddy, pockmarked face.
I give him a few seconds, and then I return. “Are you done?” I say coldly.
“My sister spoils you,” he says, his bitterness and resentment seeping from every word. “Just because you’re the COO doesn’t mean you can treat me like garbage. I’m your uncle, no matter what position you hold.”
“My mother has never been present enough in my life to spoil me,” I say. “And you and I have never had a familial relationship. Don’t pretend otherwise. Why are you calling me outside of business hours?”
He’s silent for a second; I can feel his dilemma. He called me for a reason, but now that I’m demanding an answer, he’s feeling obstinate.
Finally he spits the words out. “To tell you to reconsider,” he says. “Whatever you’re scheming?— ”
“I’m wounded,” I cut him off. “I would hardly call myself a schemer.”
More creative cursing, and this time I can’t help but smile a little. He’s so easily provoked. I shouldn’t enjoy that, but I do.
“Lawrence is going to get married soon,” he says, “and he’ll be ready to take over once your grandmother dies. He won’t remove you from your position; he won’t interfere in your plans. So give it up, all right?”
He’s probably right; Lawrence wouldn’t fire me or demote me. He’s too much of a coward. But he would find the pettiest ways to make my life miserable, and he would run the company straight into the ground.
There are so many things I’d like to say to Clarence, frustrations to vent and accusations to level. Ultimately, though, they wouldn’t matter, because they wouldn’t change a thing. So I keep it brief.
“No,” I say.
Then I hang up.
“Drive a bit faster, if you can,” I say to Wyatt. I let my head drop back against the seat. “We’ll miss the last ferry of the day if we don’t hurry.”
We make the ferry, but only just. It’s a twelve-minute ride we spend in silence, for which I’m grateful; there’s too much going on in my head right now, a chaotic whirlwind of family and work and my marriage dilemma. When we reach the island, I drop Wyatt off at home—using a golf cart, because that’s the only kind of vehicle Sunset Harbor allows—and then I head to my office .
I’ve just finished unlocking the door when my phone buzzes again, and I check it with a sigh. I don’t think I can stomach another conversation with my family right now. I straighten, though, when I see who’s calling, and my exhaustion gives way to a burst of energy.
“What do you want?” I say when I answer.
The voice that speaks is clear, matter-of-fact, but simmering with anger. “I’m going to run you over with my car,” Holland Blakely says.
“Don’t be stupid,” I say. “You don’t have a car.”
“Did you put a dead fish in my mailbox?” she demands.
I let out an obviously fake gasp, flipping the office lights on; the fluorescent buzz fills the room as I answer. “I would never.”
“Yes, you would. This is disgusting. You better watch your back?—”
“I think you’ll find,” I interrupt her smoothly, “that we could now be considered even, and that if you retaliate, I will have no choice but to do the same.”
“What do you mean, we’re even? I did nothing to provoke?—”
“Did you or did you not mix Skittles and M it’s merciless, evil .
“Are those the only two you’ve found?” she says through her witch’s cackle.
My eyes widen as I step into my office. “The only two—wait. Are there more? What did you do?”
“Nothing you didn’t deserve,” she says, and her laughter dies abruptly. When she speaks again, I can hear her facial expression in her voice—casual, nonchalant, eyes gleaming with triumph. “Because you changed the name of every S contact in my phone to Salvador and every D contact to Dalí .”
My anger dissipates as an evil smile of my own unfurls over my lips. Dalí’s art has always freaked her out. “I did do that,” I say, grinning. “I have no regrets.”
“I loathe you with the fire of a thousand suns.”
“I’m heartbroken,” I say flatly.
“And I’m hanging up now.”
I roll my eyes. “So soon?”
“Don’t forget to visit Nana Lu,” Holland says. “She, unlike me, has poor taste in men, so she’s very excited to play bingo with you.”
“I never forget about your grandmother,” I say.
“Good,” she says. She pauses for just a moment and then speaks again. “Also?—”
“What?” I say impatiently.
“Buy some fresh vegetables or something,” she says. “I poked around while I was over there tampering with your sugar supply. You have a billion protein supplements, but all that’s in your vegetable crisper is one wilted head of lettuce. There’s no way you’re getting enough vitamins and minerals.”
“I’ll determine my own diet, thanks.”
“Fine,” she says with a snort. “Get scurvy.” She starts to say something else, but I don’t care to listen; I hang up instead, relishing how angry it will make her. Then I call my assistant.
“When you get a moment, log in and change the passcode for my front door,” I tell him.
“Mmm,” he says; I can imagine him bobbing his head and making note of it in the leather folder he always carries. “And the garage?”
I hesitate only a moment. There’s no reason Holland Blakely should ever need to get into my house. But in case she does…
“Leave the garage,” I say.
I’ll set the alarm so that if she enters through that door, the police will show up. The thought fills me with joy, and by the time I go home for the day, I’m in a significantly better mood.